


Words Unspoken

by Kaynesian



Category: Dragon Age (Tabletop RPG), Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Like, REALLY love girls, graphic violence may be a bit strong but I'm tagging it to be sure, i just really love girls, sapphic relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 11:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8487751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaynesian/pseuds/Kaynesian
Summary: Inspired by this post on tumblr.“I’m sorry about your hand.” When she kisses her, she starts at her palm. Feather-light touches as her lips grace first her palm, then each of her fingertips before she moves higher. Idly traces her fingers against the clear scarring and she has to remind her that ‘hey, that tickles’. She doesn’t have the heart to tell her that her feeling is almost gone from there, instead she settles for feeling the warmth fading, left behind from her hot breath or her small fingertips.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Meant only to be a study on relationships and what goes unsaid but then I watched one of my friends have what can only be described as a meltdown from this (she thought it was very cute) so figured I'd share it with y'all.  
> Enjoy! (Feedback is ofc, as always, appreciated!)

The first time she touches her, it’s in the middle of an inferno. Despite the heavy downpour the flames are roaring, ever climbing higher as hands grasping for the sky, courtesy of a stray fireball and tar. The slaver ship is groaning, each wave causing it to scrape closer to land from where they forced it aground, each roll causing the deck to shake and wobble beneath her feet. She’ll need to hurry.

The group of Dalish in front of her are young, eyes puffed from crying. Some have marks of violence upon their faces, others carry them in their eyes. She whispers her condolences in Rivaini as she cuts through their bindings, lets her crew help them to their legs as she moves onto the next. Their faces blurs as she moves through the room, all too young, most of them not even sporting a Vallaslin yet.

As she cuts her ties, a hand shoots out, grabs onto her sleeve, sharp eyes framed by red glaring into hers with a purpose that almost knocks the breath out of her. There’s a wrath in there, in a magnitude which she has never seen before.

“A knife, shemlen.”

She’s aware it’s not wise, arming someone who looks unstable enough to turn on you, but there’s an urgency in the other’s voice, desperation lacing her every word despite the fierceness she means to get out. So she does it anyway.

It’s painful to look at the Dalish stumbling across the cargo hold in her tattered rags. Each roll of the ship sends her lurching to the side, constantly falling but never actually hitting the ground. Her small hand is clenched so tightly around the knife that it’s turned completely white, a stark contrast to the dark depths of the hold. But she makes it to the ladder.

-

When she enters the fresh sea-air again, a young child at her hip and another behind her, the deck is red with blood. She hands off the children to a crewmate, turns around to look for the other Dalish, expects to find her still on the wooden planks. Instead she finds her at the bow, sunk down in a circle of dead men, back hunched and turned towards her.

The other doesn’t stir as she moves closer, dead eyes staring towards the sea. From her eyes a trail of tears run through the bloody delta of her face, blood and Vallaslin melted into one. She surrenders the knife easily enough. Struggles weakly when she attempts to brush the cut-off ears from her lap.

“You don’t need these,” she murmurs in Rivaini, means to say ‘you don’t need this’, but maybe the other does. Attempts first at trade, then softer in Rivaini when the other doesn’t move, “This ship is going down. We need to move.”

There’s no reaction until she attempts to touch her at the arm, to help her raise to her feet. There’s a violent jerk and suddenly she’s on the floor, the knife wrestled from her hand, would have been embedded in her throat had she not offered her hand instead. And there’s a wild, wild look in the other’s eyes, animalistic, primal, _afraid_.

She coons at her, her Rivaini flowing freer than her trade ever has, as she raises a hand to her cheek, wipes the blood away, she coons as she removes the knife from deep within her palm, guides her to her feet, off her, and off the blighted ship. She doesn’t stop cooning until each and every Dalish has had a meal and something warm to cover them. Then she treats her bloody hand.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They lay to port in Rivain. Attempts to set them up with elven families, but one by one they all go missing. The young woman with the red Vallaslin is the first, disappears from right behind her crewmate as he leads her to her new home. Her last memory of her is on the dock, back turned to her, her first words uttered since she asked for the knife,

“Sorry about your hand.”

She remembers smiling, humored by the sheer lack of actual apology in her words.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They meet where they left each other. In the middle of a busy port, her attempting to haggle the price on a new glove - her palm never did heal properly - when she melts from the shadows. One minute she’s not there, the next she’s right beside her, dark leather armor brushing against her rough sleeves. She’s much more grown than before, so much more there.

There’s no greeting, she’s all business and edge as she appears to browse the display, feigns not giving her any attention.

“You saved my clan. A Dalish always repays her debts.”

And that’s all that’s said on the matter. When they leave port the next day, her attention is split between the rudder and the darkly clad elf, red hair floating everywhere in the wind. Her men aren’t exactly ecstatic about having a deadly Dalish on the ship, but she’s soon included - despite her few words and brusque behavior.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You called me something the other day.”

“I call you many things.”

“Not to my face.”

“Most of them aren’t meant to be to your face.”

“Don’t think I won’t pursue this. I’ll figure out what _letha-whatever_ means.”

“Good luck. Not many Dalish around here.”

“And I thank the spirits for that every day. I have enough trouble with just you around.”

“I deal with my own trouble.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They never bring up the debt but they both know it’s been repaid years ago.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There are many things they don’t say with words.

_“I’m sorry about your hand.”_ When she kisses her, she starts at her palm. Feather-light touches as her lips grace first her palm, then each of her fingertips before she moves higher. Idly traces her fingers against the clear scarring and she has to remind her that ‘hey, that tickles’. She doesn’t have the heart to tell her that her feeling is almost gone from there, instead she settles for feeling the warmth fading, left behind from her hot breath or her small fingertips.

_“I’m sorry about your clan.”_ That one they never touch. It’s not her place. They never speak about anything from before their second meeting actually. It’s irrelevant from their _now_. But sometimes at night, when she wakes to her Red gone, she pulls on a tunic and goes to the deck, waves away the night guard, waves away everyone. She stands beneath the foremast and retells her mother’s tale of the stars and constellations. Sometimes she speaks until she’s hoarse and dawn breaks upon the waves, other times she’s there only minutes before there’s a small thump behind her and then she's pressing against her, sometimes with her shoulder, sometimes her face, but she never comments on it. Only allows herself to be pulled back to bed once she’s shaken the memories.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_“I love you.”_

It’s in every hushed whisper against her burning skin, it’s in her hands trailing her body, fingers curling in pleasure, it’s in her hand upon her shoulder, keeping her grounded, keeping her there. It’s in every dagger thrown against targets sneaking up from behind, every knife to the gut of an enemy. In every flower bought, (‘don’t waste your money on useless things’ she gets back - another ‘i love you’), in every bottle shared. It’s in every wrinkle that appear as the years go by, every hair greying one by one until they’re the norm.

It isn’t until late at night, when her breaths have grown longer, her face peaceful, softer than she ever allows it to be, that she says it out loud. A low murmur sneaking its way past the fear that spirits will pick it up and carry if away from her which seems ever present. It rolls on her tongue funny, spills through her lips unwanted yet true,

**“I love you.”**


End file.
